I dream of Rekka, for the first time in years. I blame Gray with his talk of revolution. That had always been her dream; she would have signed right up.

  Rekka, Rekka, tiny and delicate but the furthest thing from fragile, skin like milk and hair like blood. I've always kept my personal and professional lives separate -- I'll own being a thief, but lying your way into a girl's bed makes you something a lot worse than a thief -- and Rekka was the first one who made me regret it, made me want to share more of myself than a wise thief ought. I felt the same conflict in her, like there was something dangerous she kept just out of sight.

  Some of the best times of my life were during the year or so we were together, sitting beside her in coffeehouses while long-haired children of privilege preached revolt. Some of the worst were just after she disappeared, leaving nothing but a curt note and a pile of regrets. When I asked around, I found out from friends that she'd left the City, a sure sign of desperation or insanity. Maybe I was supposed to follow her. (Maybe I should have.)

  I wake to the tent brightening as the suns slip over the horizon one by one. For a moment, caught in the tatters of the dream, I roll over and sleepily paw for Rekka's warm body nestled against me. I find someone's knees instead.

  "Murder!" Mercy says brightly.

  Ah. Right.

  "Protect," she says, kneeling by my bedside. "Murder no, protect, Kal murder."

  It's too early for this. Or at least not awake enough.

  "Sorry," I tell her. "I don't understand."

  Mercy makes a frustrated pout and points to the doorway. "No murder." Her brows furrow in concentration. "Theeee-oh."

  "Can I fucking come in or not?" Theo says from just outside.

  "Um, go ahead!" I shout. "I get it. Thank you, Mercy."

  "Murder!" she says happily. If she's going to appoint herself my secretary, we're really going to keep working on that vocabulary.

  Theo storms in. Even overnight the rockwater has done wonders on her bruises, turning the one on her eye a spectacular yellow-green. A dark circle under her good eye, however, suggests that she hasn't gotten much sleep.

  "Good morning --" I begin.

  "The fuck it is. Trax is out there polishing his trike so he can go and get himself in style. I used to say he had only two brain cells to rub together, but one of them must have died while I was gone. He's got this idea --"

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  "He told me all about it last night." I scratch the back of my head. "It seemed a little odd, but I didn't want to argue." Then, bracing for the inevitable explosion, I add, "Did he go through the part where you and I are supposed to get married?"

  "That's obviously idiocy. He can go fuck himself," she says, waving away the whole subject. I deflate, just a little. "We can't let him do this. You have to stop him."

  "Wait, have to stop him? What makes you think I have any say here?"

  "You're the only one who can. I spent the night fighting half the clan about it, but they're all too roachshit to talk back to him. He won't listen to , Twelve fucking forbid. You're the one he named his brother." She rolls her eyes. "That's not a clan tradition, by the way. He just makes this shit up as he goes along."

  "If he won't listen to his sister, he certainly won't listen to me! He's known me for all of one night."

  ", Kal."

  I pause for a moment, really looking at her. Her hands are clenched at her sides, trembling, and the beginnings of tears glimmer in her eyes. She realizes what's happening and furiously wipes her face with the back of her hand.

  "I couldn’t give a fuck if he lives or dies, honestly, but the clan him," she says. "He's the only thing that's kept us out of Slaughterborne's cauldron the last decade, and it's worse than ever now that the bastard united all the Sworn. Without Trax, Twelve know who the clan will choose as leader. They might ask to do it." Her expression says this prospect is an unmitigated horror.

  Last night I was so focused on my own concerns -- from Atrax's marriage demand to the prospect of the Navy taking revenge -- I didn't even consider trying to convince him to do it. He seemed so determined it was the only course of action.

  And it might not matter much either way. If the Navy is due to sweep in here, the nomad clans will be beaten into submission or placed under the rule of a local hegemon; probably someone like this Slaughterborne. The Princeps likes ruthless tools who'd already proved their worth --

  Hmm.

  There's a feeling, when you get one of ideas. You can see the shape of the notion, not the details but the of it, enough to understand the scale. And you think, Twelve above, should I really do it? That's , right? I shouldn't do it, there's just no way. But at the same time you you won't be able to help yourself, that the audacity of the idea has its own gravity, and as it pulls you forward you get a feeling like the tingle in the soles of your feet when you stand on the edge of a high roof. But it's everywhere, all through your body, because you're about to throw your whole over the side and figure it out on the way down.

  I just move on. Fuck Gray's revolution. Whatever happens to Atrax and Theo is my concern -- rescuing her from cannibals isn't enough?

  My fingertips are tingling.

  "If Slaughterborne actually accepted the challenge," I say slowly, "could Atrax win? What would happen?"

  "He won't --"

  "I know, I know. Just hypothetically."

  "Hypothetically? Sure, why not? Trax is the best fucking driver in the Waste. Plus he's a big dumb muscle-man, those are the people who do great in challenges. Slaughterborne's getting old, too. If Atrax beat him, all the Sworn bands would probably fight to see who gets to be the next leader. It'd be great for us, but that's exactly why he accept. He's got everything to lose and fuck all to gain, why take the risk? He'll just have Trax shot to bits for his fucking ."

  "I have an idea."

  A mad idea. I to get out of here and never look back, bury myself so deep that Shavi Montremora himself won't be able to find me.

  "A way to get him to stop?" Theo says, rubbing furiously at her running nose.

  What the hell. I've never been one to overthink these things.

  "Not … exactly."